Lolita
by Anna Lane
Summary: Jordan Parrish is called in to help investigate Jason Blossom's murder. He meets a redheaded high school student who reminds him of Lydia. The meaner they are, the harder he'll fall? Oneshot Crossover between Teen Wolf and Riverdale. Set S1E6


**A/N:** Warning: this fic gets kinda hokey regarding the murder plot, but I just really wanted to write it. I am also not sure if I'm remembering Jason's number correctly. Feel free to leave any feedback or point out any mistakes. This is not a songfic, but some of the inspiration (as well as the title) is from Miniature Tiger's _Lolita_.

I've only seen up to Season 1 Episode 6 at the time of this upload, so I don't anticipate there being any spoilers.

~AL

* * *

Parrish stepped off the bus on unsteady feet. Here he'd let himself be loaned to another station and _Megabus_ was the only mode of transportation his superiors could afford to reimburse. He had agreed to help out in order to take a break from the weirdness that was beacon hills, but he was beginning to regret his decision. He would have preferred to avoid the obnoxiously-long overnight trip surrounded by strangers who had remained unperturbed by the bus driver's half-hearted attempt to stop smoking on the bus.

Some days Parrish wished weed were still illegal in California. Regular scheduled testing for police meant that there was no way he could partake in it, anyway. Not that he knew how the herb would affect a hellhound anyway.

He was met at the station by the Sheriff of Riverdale and two adults who Parrish could only assume were the parents of the murdered boy, Jason Blossom.

"Hello. I'm Jordan Parrish." He held out his hand to shake the Sheriff's hand. He turned to the woman.

"You don't look like you could possibly have much experience with this type of case." The mother regarded him coldly.

"Newly promoted," Parrish explained. "Our department is small. I handle a wide variety of assignments. We've recently been experiencing a rash of violent and unexplained crimes. Considering your department in Riverdale is even smaller than Beacon Hills, my sheriff and your sheriff thought I might be able to help."

Mr. Blossom shook his hand and put a comforting hand on his wife's forearm. "We are glad to have all the help we can get. We want to find who did this to Jason and make them pay."

"I will do all that I can," he promised.

The woman's face pinched. "Why don't you start with some of the riffraff at that school?"

"That's actually the first place I planned on going," Jordan said.

"Why didn't we send him to private school?" She looked on the verge of collapsing.

"Let us know if there is anything we can do to help you," Mr. Blossom said.

Jordan nodded and watched as the man led his wife away.

"So, you're the man who's going to help find my brother's killer?"

Jordan turned around and saw a redheaded girl in an ensemble that would put Jackie Kennedy to shame. She was wearing a sleeveless white skirt suit with matching gloves that went above her elbows. His mouth opened in surprise. With the large black sunglasses covering half her face, he almost thought he'd seen someone else.

"You don't look all that impressive." She turned on her heel and walked away.

He just stared after her.

* * *

Later, at the school, Jordan cursed his job. He'd talked to what felt like half the student body and while it was a small town, it seemed disproportionately filled with pubescent emotional vampires. And none of the Bela Lugosi kind, which was a shame because it made Parrish wonder what the hell he was doing in a town that was creepy as hell, sure, but did not have a problem with the supernatural.

He sighed. Time for another one.

* * *

He'd just escorted a sobbing boy named "Moose" through the door when the next teen filed in. He was pulling in kids at random until he started to get the names of students who might have more information to offer. It had been a tedious way to focus the investigation.

The boy was largely uncooperative as he shrugged his way through Jordan's questions, making only the occasional smart ass quip.

"I have a friend in Beacon Hills. Has a unique way of thinking, just like you. I think you'd like him." Could Parrish call Stiles a friend?

"Is it a unique way if it's just like mine?" The boy wisecracked.

Jordan smiled. "Stranger things have happened."

"Such as the murder of one of Riverdale High's most accomplished athletes?"

"Exactly."

Jughead leaned in and looked pained. "Look, I'm going to tell you what happened. But I want you to know I'm only talking because I think you might be the only one objective enough to get a clear picture." He looked thoughtful. "Besides me, of course."

Parrish readied himself for the information the boy – Jughead – was about to give, fully prepared to listen to a story about making out in the woods or a small-town football idol who was everyone's best friend.

After learning about Jughead's amateur investigation, however, he finally felt he was getting somewhere. "And the girl, Betty? Is that Elizabeth Cooper?" She was suddenly next on his list of students to question.

"Why does it matter?" The boy was suddenly on guard.

"Are you protecting her from something?"

Jughead all but rolled his eyes. "She has nothing to do with any of this."

"Her sister had a relationship with the victim and she was with you when you found the car, if I understand your story correctly."

"I'm late for class," Jughead dismissed Jordan's implications and stood to leave. "The backpack went missing after we turned it in, but it wasn't in the fire. You should try to find it. There might be a clue we missed."

Jordan nodded. It might have been strange to be accepting advice from a teen, but he'd met some capable teens in the past couple years. And it wasn't a bad idea.

Betty's story hadn't differed from Jughead's, but she did provide him with one of the few testimonies that claimed Jason wasn't the teen saint his family made him out to be. That had already been fairly obvious to him considering someone had murdered him.

At the end of the day, there was only one person he hadn't spoken to who he felt could have information on Jason's death. "Archie Andrews?" he weaved through the footballers calling his name until one finally stopped.

"Yes?"

Jordan was a little surprised when he saw him. Why were there so many redheads in this town? Were they all secretly spawned by Chuckie the cult leader form hell?

"I'd like to ask you a few questions before practice, Archie. Inside." The last thing Jordan wanted was for his teammates to listen in and possibly stop Archie from sharing everything he knew.

The redheaded boy gave him an anxious nod and they headed back toward the school.

Jordan asked him questions, about Betty, about Jughead. About Jason.

"Did you want to be the first-string quarterback, Archie?" he finally asked.

Archie's face fell. "Am I a suspect? I know Mrs. Grundy is gone, but just find her. She'll tell you, I was with her when the gun went off–"

"Relax. I'm just trying to figure this out. I appreciate you sharing your situation with Mrs. Grundy. It can't have been easy."

"It wasn't a situation," Archie insisted.

Parrish nodded. "Is there anyone else on the team besides you who benefited from Jason's death?"

Archie was shaking his head. "Look, I didn't want Jason to die. I feel terrible. I couldn't even wear his number."

"His number?"

"Yeah, you know? 12. His jersey."

Jordan sighed. "Okay, Archie. You can head back to practice. If there's anything else you'd like to share, make sure you contact the sheriff, okay?"

Before the boy could leave, an older man with white hair came in. "What is going on here?"

"You must be Principal Weatherbee, I'm Jordan Par–"

"You can't question the students without their parents' consent."

"You need to calm down," Parrish told the spluttering older man. "I cleared it with–"

"Leave this second. Or I will call the mayor and you will never find a job in this state again!"

There was something off about the principal's scent. Cheryl, Jason's sister, came to mind, but that wasn't quite right. This was almost sickly.

Jordan was alarmed. He wasn't a werewolf and his hellhound always seemed more like a separate entity than a part of him. If he was scenting things, it could mean that his other half was close to the surface. If he was close to becoming the hellhound again, was there something supernatural here after all?

"They aren't in custody," Parrish explained. "It's perfectly legal. And I also offered to contact their parents. They refused. Or is your real concern about what the students might be saying about you?" It was a bluff, of course, but the principal turned red with anger.

"I – that's ridiculous. I want you off school property. Now."

Parrish reached for his phone. "I'll call the sheriff, clear this up, okay?"

"No." The older man said. "Leave now. You too, Andrews. Get out of here."

"But, Mr. Weatherbee –"

" _Go._ "

Archie turned to go, but stopped to watch when he heard Jordan's next question.

"Why don't we go talk in your office, Mr. Weatherbee?" Jordan suggested.

"Absolutely not."

"I don't need a warrant to search a public school. Where is your office?" He took an advancing step and looked around the hall. It was easy to find.

Archie followed them.

It didn't take long. Jordan found the backpack in the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet by letting his nose do the work. Blue and Gold, with a #12 patch ironed on the front zipper section. A quick look inside revealed a gun. "Mr. Weatherbee, you have the right to remain silent…"

* * *

They allowed the family the personal effects from Jason's backpack after an investigation of its contents. They fit in a gallon zip lock baggie. When Parrish dropped it off at the house, Cheryl took it to the kitchen.

She held it reverently while she pawed through the contents. She slowly pulled out a framed picture of herself.

What kind of teenage boy has a picture of his sister in his backpack?

"When we were little I thought we'd get married," she confided.

"You thought you'd marry your brother?" Jordan couldn't help himself.

"Yes," she said as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Jordan shifted as her eyes filled with tears looking at the picture. When _he_ was in second grade he'd wanted to marry Patty Spivot and it had been nothing but innocent. Maybe he was just overthinking her devotion to her brother.

She finally looked up. "Thank you for helping find my brother's killer."

"I didn't do anything, really."

She put the picture against her heart. "You did."

"I found a gun," he argued. "And there's a suspect in custody, but –"

"You helped find _the_ gun…" She leaned in close and Parrish took a step back. "You get one wish."

"You try that one wish line on every guy you meet?"

Cheryl spluttered, turned on her heel and walked away.

* * *

The principal was in custody, ready to be questioned, and Parrish was ready to go home. Unfortunately, Riverdale was a small town and that came with limited busing routes.

Cheryl took one shrewd look at him and his duffle and offered him a room for the night. Her parents had come from the police station after unsuccessfully vying to question the principal themselves. They stood there silently, as if it wasn't strange for their teenage daughter to be offering a stranger a room.

"I can find a motel," he insisted.

"Not in this town," she simpered. "We aren't exactly a tourist hot spot. And I doubt we ever will be, not after my brother's gruesome murder."

Jordan nodded, not sure what to do with her frank assessment. "I'll catch a cab somewhere else."

"We don't have any cabbies in Riverdale." She looked at him intently. "Before you come up with any other creative ideas, I wouldn't trust any of these people as an Uber driver. Besides, Uber is plebian at best."

"I can get some rest at the station. I don't want to be a bother."

"Cheryl's right," the mother chimed in finally. She had a dull look on her face and Jordan had no doubt it was due to Xanax or Valium. After a day like today, he didn't blame her. Still, his last sentence must have triggered some prim set of principles deeply ingrained in the maple heiress' mind, because she continued in a zombie-like tone, "We have plenty of room. You should stay here tonight." She turned and left as if that settled it.

Jordan got the feeling things were often settled at a word from her.

Mr. Blossom put a heavy hand on Jordan's shoulder. "I think the ladies are right. Besides, you don't want to be caught in the storm."

"I don't think that will be necessary–"

"Stay," the youngest Blossom commanded. It was ironic that she was ordering him around like a dog, but she didn't know that. It was more ironic that a hellhound had been overpowered by some aristocratic sense of hospitality from three of the most inhospitable people he'd ever met. He let himself be led to his room.

He looked around once he was alone. The room looked a little like something out of a gothic Martha Stuart magazine, but at that point Parrish didn't care. He took off his shirt and went into the adjoining bathroom to splash some warm water on his face before bed.

Cheryl assured him the sheets were clean – and she'd seemed oddly disappointed by that – but Jordan decided not to sleep under the covers. He threw himself down and despite the fact that it was a strangers home, a drafty, creepy stranger's home, he fell asleep quickly.

It didn't last long.

Someone shook him. "Wake up!" They said unnecessarily.

"What is it?" he asked as he blinked a few times. She brought a candle. Were flashlights plebian, too?

"I heard a noise," she said.

"What?"

She gave him guileless eyes. "I'm scared."

Jordan's brows rose as he took her in. The little girl thing did nothing for him, but the little pink nighty with black lace drew his eyes.

"Cheryl," he said with discomfort, "it was probably just the storm." He turned his face so he would look at something, anything else. How did such a thin fabric manage to push up–? No. He took in the darkness of the rest of his room.

"Please, could you take a look around? I think someone's in the house."

Jordan reached up to run a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. He didn't miss the way her eyes followed the muscles in his chest as his muscles stretched. She leaned forward over him and Jordan had to sit up to avoid the awkwardness of his current eye level.

He would rather look at anything else. "You should get your parents."

"What can my parents do? Throw sap at them?"

"Cheryl–"

"What good is a having a cop stay over if he won't even take a look around?"

Parrish resigned himself. Besides, wandering around the house was probably infinitely better than remaining in a candlelit room with her. He would have preferred to wake her parents, but he hadn't needed to spend time with them to know they probably wouldn't provide much comfort to their daughter. And on the off chance that there _was_ something supernatural going on, the parents probably wouldn't believe or know much about it.

Cheryl shuddered as the house gave a creek. For the first time he considered that she might be telling the truth. He'd probably be creeped out if he had to grow up in a house like this. Especially just after losing someone he loved.

It was with great effort that he avoided looking her way as he crossed the room for the shirt he tossed on the chair beside the window and pulled it over his head. What was it with him and pouty redheads?

"Where did you hear the noise?" he asked.

"The library," she said.

Of course they had a library.

"This way." She and her candle led him through the cold hallway.

She closed the door behind them and set the candle on the table.

He tried hard not to be distracted by the thin strap that slipped off one of her shoulders. He began looking around the room, between the stacks, and through the large windows. He didn't see anything until a sudden burst of wind slammed a branch from a nearby tree against the pane. He almost laughed at himself when he jumped. "It's just the wind, see?" he told her.

"It didn't sound like that. It sounded like footsteps."

"There's nothing here, Cheryl."

"Not anymore," she agreed as she looked around.

"It could have been someone else in the house – how many people do you have on your staff?"

"None that stay the night."

"It could have been your parents, your grandma," he reasoned.

She shook her head and walked close to him. The candle behind her lit the shape of her body. "No one else is awake. We're alone."

Parrish was back to being confused. He wasn't even sure _she_ knew what she was doing. Before he could put some distance between them, she raised her arms to grasp his shoulders.

"Cheryl." His hands went to her waist. With her arms raised, the fabric had pulled up higher. His little fingers were touching bare skin.

She snaked her arms until they were around his neck and she stood on her tiptoes. She was wearing a spicy scent, one that made him want to sneeze. Her lips parted and she leaned closer.

He used the hands he had at her waist to push her away.

"I see him sometimes," she whispered.

"What?"

"Jason. I see him. He's everywhere. All the time. Do you believe in ghosts?"

Nothing could have cooled Jordan off more. She was haunted and in pain. She didn't know what she was doing and he sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to take advantage of her while she was grieving.

"Let's go back, okay?" He put a hand on her shoulder. She was freezing.

She refused to move. "Do you?"

"Yes."

Her face wavered. "I'm scared."

"What are you afraid of?"

"I don't know how to live without him. He protected me." A hand went up to wipe at her face. "And I keep seeing him. And I'm _scared_ of him. I've never been scared of him."

"I have bad memories. In Afghanistan...it doesn't matter. The point is, sometimes I still see my friends and I wonder why I'm not dead and they are."

"Does it get better?" she asked.

"No."

Cheryl seemed comforted by his honestly. By the hopelessness.

He didn't want her to embrace that feeling. "But you find things to distract yourself."

She looked up at him again. He couldn't see the details of her face with her back to the fire. She maintained the distance between them, but leaned until her lips pressed against his. They moved against his mouth slowly.

It was soft and sweet and entirely unexpected. Entirely unlike his desperate, imaginary kisses with Lydia.

Their lips stuck together just a fraction of second when she pulled away.

He licked his lips and found that her mouth had left a vanilla taste. "I don't think this is one of those distractions," he said finally.

Cheryl seemed sad, but Jordan had a feeling it wasn't because of him. She led him back to his room with the candle. It had burned down to almost nothing.

She stopped him at the entrance with a hand on his arm. "I never thought I'd say this, but…it was nice to meet someone who isn't anything like my brother."

Parrish gave her a weary smile.

When she returned it, her bright mahogany eyes were huge and watery. It was only a look, but it was the most honest he thought she'd been in the short time he'd known her.

Impulsively, he pulled her in for a quick hug. She looked stunned, as if it had thrown her off more than the kiss.

He turned to go but found the air of the room was chillier than when he left. A quick look around showed him why. "Did you open that window when you woke me up?" he asked.

Cheryl peered around him into the room. "No."

Jordan approached the large frame and closed it. It was the kind that swung open inward. "Must have been the storm," he said, but he wasn't very convinced himself.

She hugged herself. "This was my brother's room. Mom already had the housekeeper change so much about it."

"I'm sorry."

"I used to sleep here every night." She didn't look like she wanted to stay in the room anymore.

"Why don't you get go get some sleep, Cheryl."

As she left, he knew he wouldn't find sleep so easy for himself.

* * *

The hug and the murder were on his mind the next morning as he boarded the bus. And who was he kidding? So was Lydia. She was never far from his thoughts. He couldn't even dream without seeing her. He had no chance when he was awake.

Parrish knew the case against Principal Waldo Weatherbee wasn't so simple. There could be any number of reasons the gun was at the school. The principal had no motive, but it sounded like half the student body _did_. In short, Parrish wasn't convinced that the matter was completely closed, but he doubted the department would send him back. Especially since Parrish knew Sheriff Stilinski's main concern was to make sure this case was unrelated to Beacon Hills in the first place.

His worries about the case didn't last the entire loud, crowded, and smoke-screened ride home. His mind wandered to the two redheads. Both of them were strong, independent. Somewhat terrifying. He thought about Cheryl's face, a calm mask that hide anger and cunning. Parrish thought he might miss her.

But Lydia. His eyes closed and he put his head back against the seat as he pictured her. Her face was a mask that somehow managed to be blank and broken all at once. Lydia needed him more than Cheryl. Or maybe, he was the one who needed her.

By some miracle, she was at the bus stop waiting for him. "Lydia," he couldn't help but meet her with a grin. "How did you know when I was getting back?"

"I'm not here for you," she said, her face expressionless as she stared into the woods behind the station.

Parrish turned and without even moving closer, he could see the shape of a body among the shrubs. "Typical."


End file.
